Why do I have so many masters?

The rain fell in torrents.

Bucketfuls of rain poured into the bamboo forest beside Wind Character Tower, landing on the green umbrellas held by passersby, sliding down the umbrella surfaces onto the ground, mixing with the soil, turning into mud.

Under the flying eaves of Wind Character Tower, the golden bells suddenly rang with the wind, their sound cascading from above, as distant as the heavens.

Beneath Jinling, the bright red silk cloth danced wildly.

The young man in yellow was ready to sheathe his sword. As the crowd saw there was no more spectacle to watch, they gradually dispersed. The martial artist holding the sword behind him opened his eyes, his previously gathered inner strength dissipated, adding a touch of additional laziness. The young man's friend came over from the side and teased with a big laugh.

"Hahaha, Murong, don't be angry. I'll handle the bets today."

"Go find a courtesan to cool your fire."

Everything followed a normal trajectory.

Only beneath Wind Character Tower, a lone librarian stood.

The rain fell like a curtain.

The ding-dong sound from high above intensified, the distant tolling of the golden bells suddenly became rapid. For some reason, the martial artist felt slightly uneasy. Although he wasn't of the Middle Third Rank, with martial power close to the Seventh Rank and his cultivation from a martial art not passed outside his noble clan, he had a naturally keen instinct.

With a slight lift of his head, he even felt a piercing pain in his brow, as if a sharp longsword were pointed right at his forehead. Involuntarily, his eyebrows knitted together, and his right hand reached out, gripping the hilt of the sword.

A layer of fine cold sweat had appeared in the palm of his hand.

The rain became heavier, and then there was thunder, like a dragon weaving through the sky, lighting up the world with a brilliant flash. Suddenly there was the sound of a sword's cry, and a cold light shattered the curtain of rain, appearing like lightning before the young man in yellow. The martial artist drew his sword instinctively, but at that moment, he caught sight of a pair of distinct black and white eyes, bloodshot with strain, and a deep chill arose in his heart.

Many above the Seventh Rank had perished because of him!

A clarity emerged in his mind, while his body involuntarily stiffened for a moment, watching as the afterimage tore through the sky, lifting the curtain of rain.

The thunder rumbled and was gone in an instant.

The bell sounds beneath the flying eaves of Wind Character Tower reached a peak before gradually calming down. A strand of cold light spun upwards towards the sky and then fell to the ground, embedding in the bluestone path with a clear ring. The bluestone, washed clean by the rain, appeared even more serene. The wet edge of the longsword quickly gathered droplets of water, which slid along the sides of the blade to the ground. The whistling sound grew lower, but it lingered in the distance.
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The man who had been holding a sword now stood rigidly to one side, and suddenly two disjointed lines of poetry surfaced in his mind.

"Comes like thunder, which subsides rage,

Heaven and Earth thereby long subdued."

As the people's vision, disturbed by the lightning, returned to normal, and the rain that had been sliced by the sword light began to fall as usual, beneath this curtain of rain, green umbrellas shattered like butterflies, scattering in all directions. The young man in yellow trembled, his face turning pale. The two maids who held the green umbrellas didn't know when they had been split; their bodies were unharmed, but their faces showed a slight fright. Their gazes fixed on the weapon held by the young man in blue,

It was nothing more than a bamboo umbrella.

The more ordinary that umbrella seemed, the more horrified they were.

As maids of children from noble clans, naturally, they were not unversed in martial arts.

They understood what it meant to strike such a slash with a bamboo umbrella and knew very well what incredible swordsmanship the young librarian, known as the good-hearted young man dressed in blue, possessed.

This was not a sword technique that a mere young man should be able to wield.

Wang Anfeng lowered his gaze, resting the bamboo umbrella on the young man's shoulder, his wrist flicked slightly, eliciting a long and mournful sound of sword cries, which shattered the surrounding rain mist and disheveled some of the young man's drooping black hair, scattering it in the rain.

Not far away, his friend was stunned into silence, then anger surged forth. They had not faced the sword strike directly, so they didn't know the terror in the heart of the trembling, seated young man in yellow. They just felt their pride was affronted and instinctively drew their weapons, shouting indignantly.

Wang Anfeng exhaled and slowly straightened up.

Killing in anger was the way of the hero, but not his way.

His father had said, in the Jianghu, between Heaven and Earth, inside a cage,

Killing was not shameful, but it should be the last resort.

Those who relied on their martial force to act recklessly were often useless once stripped of their martial arts.

One should not kill in anger, and one should not fear in cowardice.

Perhaps because today was the anniversary of his father's death, and the memories of eight years ago, those instructions he had yet to understand, now came back to him; he stroked his forehead, still smiling, saying words he didn't understand at the time, but now he had some clarity.

A true person, when faced with major right and wrong, even without the power to truss a chicken, even if just an ordinary scholar, will stand up straight. Those who bully others with their martial power will often kneel before even stronger individuals, abject as dust.

As he faced the young man who was approaching aggressively with a weapon, Wang Anfeng gently closed his eyes, the violent emotions in his heart somewhat subsided. The rain fell on his body, standing under Wind Character Tower, but his mind was back in Great Liang Village, with spring in the air, the memory of a thin laughing man, chatting casually, many words faded to insignificance, yet a few phrases were more profound.

The grip on the umbrella handle relaxed, and he whispered:

"A person is above martial arts."

"Self-respect is supreme."

Although his parents had passed away, the principles they taught him were still accompanying him.

Warmth flickered in Wang Anfeng's heart, as if he could see that man's laughter, all mixed thoughts subsided in an instant, and they unified with the essence of the Prajna Palm, as the inner strength of the Golden Bell Shield from Buddhism accelerated smoothly, without seeming abrupt, naturally, and the seventy-two hand-breaking maneuvers flowed through his mind.

Holding the bladed weapon, but looking down from a higher level, his wrist shook, and an invisible Qi force wrapped around the bamboo umbrella.

But when the heart that flutters wildly searches for the cause of its restlessness, finding it nowhere, where then shall the thought of turmoil reside? When one thoroughly examines the inquisitive mind, where can the essence of inquiry be found?

This heart, where is it?

The green umbrella lifted like a sword cutting diagonally, the sword qi stirring the misty rain, turning the invisible to tangible. The shouting youth's complexion turned rigid in an instant, witnessing the sword qi slashing through, winding with the rain and mist like swallows in flight, tearing the veil of rain before settling in the bamboo forest.

Green bamboo crashed down thunderously.

A sharp chill crept up the spines of the bystanders.

The young man opened the bamboo umbrella in his hand, sheltering himself from the external storm, his Golden Bell Shield activating instinctively at an unprecedented speed. Buddhism prizes enlightenment above all; in one thought, one can achieve Buddhahood. His Golden Bell Shield leapt forward in its second stage, his increasingly refined inner strength steamed the rainwater off his body, forming more mist.

At this moment, Wang Anfeng's inner demons had scattered, yet he did not deny his recent actions. Holding the green umbrella without a bow, he simply said in an even tone,

"Sorry, I have urgent matters today."

With those words, he turned to leave, not caring about others' reactions, showing a profound understanding. The green umbrella in his grip twirled slightly, letting down a curtain of rain to shield his retreat. The youth in blue, with his sword on his back, walked away.

The onlookers remained silent for a long time.

The sword-wielding martial artist had been tasked with protecting the thirteenth young master of the Murong family—the latter being not highly regarded, hence the sword-carrying guard was not truly a formidable master, but he was still close to reaching the Seventh Rank Realm.

He could have fought Wang Anfeng, but being a swordsman who had witnessed such exquisite swordsmanship, he was already dazzled. Even if this Murong scion were to spit blood before him, he would probably sigh at the immense beauty of the swordsmanship.

Now slightly regaining his senses, he glanced around to see everyone else still in a daze. Although he had not drawn his sword, as a swordsman, he shared in their glory. In his mind, two lines of an ancient poem surfaced, fitting perfectly with his previous thoughts to complete a quatrain.

It came like thunder, quelling fierce rage; it left like the river and sea, reflecting clear light.

The onlookers were forlorn as mountains; heaven and earth long lingered in low admiration.

At this thought, his heart surged with joy as if he were drunkenly reveling in wine, prompting him to flick his sword and recite the ancient verses in a chant, then shaking his head in admiration, he exclaimed,

"Good, good, good swordsmanship!"

As his words fell, he realized that those around him were looking his way with strange expressions. Suddenly remembering his own identity and duty, he felt that his behavior in light of his young master's fright was entirely improper. His face stiffened slightly with a hint of embarrassment.

The yellow-robed young man, supported by a maid, still felt the tremors of fear, thinking that his challenge or disrespectful words had met with such a threat—there really was no reason for it. "I insulted you; couldn't you just yell back?" he thought.

Was all that truly necessary?

Anger simmered within him, and as he was about to swear as usual, the harsh sword light flashed before his eyes once more. His neck instinctively shrank back, and he found himself unable to speak, on the verge of crying without tears. Then he saw his own guard plucking at his sword in admiration, which infuriated him even more.

He lifted his foot to deliver a fierce kick, but his legs went soft, failing to muster any strength. Instead, it resembled the petulant tantrum of a child as he gritted his teeth and said,

"Aren't you going to chase him? Teach him a lesson properly!"

The guard replied with slight reluctance.

Just then, the doors of the Wind Character Tower, which had been tightly shut, suddenly opened.

An aged voice emanated from within, calm with an implied aloofness,

"No need to clean here tonight. Come early tomorrow and remove the fallen bamboo."

There was a brief pause, and then the voice continued, now seemingly softer, as if in admiration—yet it might have been just the listeners' illusion—saying,

"Not bad, the swordsmanship."

Several breaths later, from a distant departing place, the young man's voice carried back.

"Thank you for your praise, senior."

Despite the distance, his enunciation was clear, resonating like the roar of a dragon, vibrating through the rainy mist, revealing his deep cultivation of Inner Strength, no doubt entering the Ninth Grade with a solid foundation.

Upon hearing this, the Murong young master first appeared dazed, then quickly realized the identity of the speaker, his expression stiffening instantly.

Ren Changge.

Upper Third Rank.

Untouchable.

In over his head.

As these thoughts flashed through his mind, a sense of defeat painted his face. Meanwhile, in the hidden shadows, countless thoughts that had just begun to form were rudely uprooted by the old man's casual call and praise, their bearers daring not to make another move.

A newcomber on the Constellation Ranking List, seemingly related to the 'Longsong Verse.'

Aligned with the Academy and not a wayward martial artist, impossible to recruit.

This assessment quickly landed on the desks of middle managers from several forces. Those aligned with the orthodox way simply smiled and paid it no heed, while some others cursed inwardly, fearing his might, scrapped plans that involved Wang Anfeng and sought new targets to absorb into their ranks.

PS: Second update...

Oh Buddhism, how does one grow stronger without the thoughts of demons...